


The first dark sentinels

by Adadzio



Series: Character/Relationship Studies [11]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Book 5: A Dance with Dragons, F/M, Mel is a hot mess, Mistakes were made, Multi, Old Gods, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-09
Updated: 2017-03-09
Packaged: 2018-10-01 05:32:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10181735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adadzio/pseuds/Adadzio
Summary: Melisandre has a revelation. But it is from the wrong god, and all the wrong men are prepared to burn.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Set between the beginning chapters of ADWD and Stannis's departure from the Wall _[cue me crying over Stannis]_

**I**

“These spearwives are a kind of demon,” Stannis complains. He is seated to her left at the high table. The routine is familiar and comforting, even in an unfamiliar land, an unfamiliar hall of ragged faces and drunken shouts.

“They will bend to the truth. They always do, these wildlings. They will see you are fair to men, and good to women.”

Predictably, the king scoffs at that. “My lady wife might disagree.” His voice is not bitter, nor is it angry. It rarely is around her.

“Your Grace,” Melisandre says patiently. “You do your duty by her.”

When she glances at him again, a deep line cuts his brow. “Do I? Even that, I fail. They whisper how I left her at Dragonstone, how I left her at Eastwatch-by-the-Sea and brought— "

There is a wave of raucous laughter down the hall. “Don’t listen to them. These men are gusts of wind, blowing hot, blowing cold, passing with the seasons. They are blades of grass that will die in this long winter.”

Stannis smiles, but it is not his usual sardonic smile, not his smile that is not truly a smile at all. “Are all men blades of grass to you, Melisandre?”

She thinks about that, burying her bewilderment in a goblet of wine and marveling at the Lord’s ever-present warmth in her cheeks.  _Yes. Blades of grass, all, though different colours and sizes._ “Not all men. Not you, sire. You are R’hllor’s champion.”

“I had almost forgotten,” he says grimly. 

**II**

They are leaves with five points, deep red—like Ghost's eyes, not like the glowing fire of her own. Smooth bark, ashen as bone. And that face, that gruesome face carved into its trunk, its mouth like an open wound, black as night. They say it is sap caught in the crevices of the carved face, but she knows better. The tree is weeping red, weeping blood, calling out to her with a dark power. It may well be the Great Other—or one of his cold, terrible servants—speaking falsehoods.

 _Snow,_ it whispers, and the sound echoes as a howl throughout the North. _Snow._

**III**

Lord Snow's gaze flickers to the priestess. She looks almost a goddess amidst the dreariness of Castle Black, ethereal in her rubies and a velvet bodice embroidered with gold thread. His head inclines. "Lady Melisandre."

"I have dreamed of your godswood," she says softly, speaking into her goblet. _Dreamed was a kind word._ The king could attest that it had been more a violent vision, a terror of the night, wherein she grew hysteric and bled upon her sheets. He'd avoided her bed since, thinking his physical attentions had been to blame. 

The new commander frowns at her. "We have no godswood here, my lady."

"The trees in the forest, north of the Wall?"

"Not a godswood. Only a few weirwoods."

Melisandre's red eyes slide up to his. "I should like to visit this godswood, simply to see it.”

His long face betrays surprise, then the wary understanding that she is prompting an invitation. “We may ride out one day, if it please you.” His eyes are grey, unreadable. “And if His Grace is approving.”

The king gives her a shrewd, side-long glance. “Mind you do not burn his trees down, Melisandre.”

**IV**

She waits until dawn has crept across the white landscape before pushing her shutters open and eyeing the sparkling snow beneath the King’s Tower. “How good to see the sun here,” Devan remarks, when he comes with fresh bread from the cook. 

Melisandre nods. “R’hllor has blessed us with a fine day for riding.”

The Seaworth boy looks alarmed. “His Grace mentioned no riding. Shall I inform the stables?”

“It is only Lord Snow and I, though I would be grateful if you spoke with the grooms.”

This seems to unsettle Devan further. “Very well, my lady.” At her questing red look he stutters, “His Grace seemed unawares of it.”

He relaxes a little when Melisandre smiles. “Leave my breakfast and seek out the lord commander. I shall go to the king now.”

Stannis is shouting when she reaches his apartments. A steward she does not recognise seems to be scrambling over himself to escape the room, looking ever more terrified when she drifts in. 

“I bid Your Grace good morrow,” she says.

The king does not bother turning, only continues fastening his jerkin with violent motions. “A good morrow! It is already foul. These boys cannot remember a single command.”

 _Is that why he is dressing himself?_ Melisandre nods, pretending to sympathise. He will be in a black mood, she knows—he has not visited her bedchamber in over a week, and the line of his broad shoulders is tense as a bowstring. “Forgive me, sire. I have taken Devan from you. He fetched my morning meal.”

“Good. I told him to.” 

Melisandre knows this, of course. Her approach is cautious. “My king,” she says sweetly. “I wished to ride beyond the Wall today.”

“Why should you do that?

“If you’ll recall, Lord Snow offered to show me the weirwoods.”

“Trees!” he snorts. “Do what you will. Only bring two guards with you. No—you will take two knights.”

“I thank Your Grace.” A moment passes in heavy silence as Stannis fights with his boots. “Will my king visit me tonight?”

He finally straightens and turns to consider her, blue eyes hard and piercing. The ice melts after a moment. “So long as you do not lecture me on weirwoods,” he says dryly. 

**V**

Half a league beyond the Wall they ride, until the first dark sentinels of the haunted forest appear.

A flutter of fear enters her breast, but Lord Snow barely slows his horse’s pace. She recalls the outline of the forest, even the vague paths she had ridden at Stannis’s side. But the king had led the way with his Lightbringer, then, tearing through throngs of wild men and the shadows of the woods. Without him the darkness seems overwhelming.

Ser Justin and Richard Horpe, her willing escorts, assist her with dismounting and wrangling the horse. Melisandre looks around, glimpsing more of the oak and ironwood trees within. The queen’s men had caged Rattleshirt in the same branches. 

They walk in silence. She does not attempt to take his arm as she has before, but keeps her hands buried neatly in the silk of her skirts. Lord Snow glances over. “Are you frightened?”

“Never,” she lies.

By the time they reach the small grove, a rough little clearing with a circle of nine heart trees, panic is thick in her chest. Melisandre steps very close to one. Her white hand almost blends into the ivory bark. _Snow,_ it hisses. _Snow!_ She shivers as the red eyes bore into her own. 

Jon regards her suspiciously, as if she will set the weirwoods aflame with the blink of an eye. “Do not look so pale,” she laughs. “They hold too much power for me to act against them.”

He nods, slowly. “These are my father’s gods.”

“They are striking, Lord Snow, in an unsettling way.”

The young commander simply watches her.

**VI**

A red dusk has settled over Castle Black when they return. She does not tell her king of the ride, nor of the words she shared with Lord Snow, and he does not ask.

"They are the most unusual trees, my king. It is well that you have none left in the south."

It is clear the king is only partially listening. "Did you touch them?"

"With my bare hand, not with a torch."

"Wear gloves next time," he says, knowing full well she does not need gloves.

**VII**

Jon does not ride at a leisurely pace, not even for her sake. Perhaps he is understanding, now, that she is no ordinary lady. 

How deep the horizon seems, so blank and vast that it may as well be a white sea. Now and then a jagged outcrop of land rises from the ground, other times a scattering of naked, gnarled trees stands weary and bent against the howling wind. The air is sharp against their own bodies, but they do not flinch. Jon's brow is solemnly furrowed, chin tucked stubbornly into his chest. Wool and furs shroud half his face. Melisandre is reminded again how similar this boy and her king are. The thought brings a smile to her lips. 

She dismounts in the now-familiar clearing, then tugs coyly at her red silks, fully aware that they have slipped during the ride north. With delicate hands she wraps them back over her hair.

The ploy works. Jon reaches absentmindedly to smooth a copper strand beneath her veil. 

In truth, men are not so different from each other, not to Melisandre of Asshai-by-the-shadow. One is large, the other lean, some short and others tall. She knows each and every one. Even the men who are called _difficult men_. Stannis Baratheon, Jon Snow. They are not so different, and not so difficult. Melisandre dances the same dance with them all. 

Sometimes she wonders why she must dance with this boy commander. Such shadows she could bind, yes. But Melisandre forces herself to stare into the tree’s gaping mouth, seeking a clearer answer as to how she might serve Azor Ahai through this Stark bastard.

**VIII**

The king breaks his distant routine on a bitterly cold night.  _My lady,_ he murmurs, his voice deep and rough against her ear. It is most amusing to be called a lady, to be reminded of her empty title, as if she is a true noblewoman. She is but a slave of R’hllor. The king’s obedient servant. When her lords are hard and unyielding, she accepts them moving over her, within her. If her body is what they require from her, she is content to give it.

For hours the heart trees are etched into the flames, tormenting her with their bleeding eyes. She wonders why R'hllor lets them torture her. "You are my champion," she whispers, clutching sinewy forearms. "Not just the Lord's, but mine."

He sighs at her sudden tears. "The trees frightened you, my lady?"

"You must not let them take my fire."

"Never, my priestess."

"Those dark things— "

"I have burned my parents' gods at a pretty request from your lips. I have branded your red heart above mine own and worn it openly, despite my shame. Can you doubt me? Can you look upon my sigil and doubt that I will fight until my body is broken and buried in the snow?"

She cannot doubt it. But for the first time, the promise does not comfort her.

**IX**

The queen’s men have wandered a safe distance before Jon finally meets her lips. His kiss is gentle and undemanding, far more careful than her king’s. “I have always been drawn to red hair,” he admits. 

Melisandre’s breath warms the grove around them. “You are drawn to  _fire_. You feel drawn to these trees, their strange beauty, and red eyes…am I so different, Jon?"

"No," he says, almost ruefully.

"My fire is R’hllor’s fire, and it is blessed by truth and goodness.”

His gloved fingers dance across her jaw, studying the heart-shaped face in his palm. “Mayhaps, priestess,” he frowns. “But I am not eager to burn.”

 **X**  

Before the dawn of His Grace's departure, a raven cries in the distance. The sound of it causes the king to stir against her back. Half-drowsing, he reaches between her thighs and takes her again.

She wonders, in the midst of it, if it was the old Mormont’s raven they had heard, or another from the rookery. The question drifts away. Red and white trees whisper to her with their strange gods, bleeding and hissing so loud in the flames that she cannot close her bloodshot eyes. Red and slick is the fire in the brazier, pulsing between her legs, in her veins, each tendril of flame twisting and churning above the ashes, until the image of Azor Ahai awaits her. The king spills inside her a final time, saying he will think of her in every candle. Every little ember, he vows.

In the real fire, a long face looks on.


End file.
